Seaworthy by Linda Greenlaw

Sebastian Junger, author of The Perfect Storm, described Linda Greenlaw as "one of the best captains, period, on the entire east coast."  Now, after ten years away from the helm, Greenlaw has gone to sea again and chronicles her return to the Grand Banks in Seaworthy - A Sword Captain Returns to the Sea.

From Publishers Weekly (via amazon)
After a 10-year hiatus from blue-water fishing, Greenlaw went cautiously to sea, seeking a payday and perspective on her life. Thanks to The Perfect Storm phenomenon (both book and film), she was celebrated as America's only female swordfish boat captain. She was now also a mother and an author who relished a new challenge, traveling 1,000 miles from her Maine home with an eager crew of four guys—three of them experienced sailing buddies—looking for swordfish on the 63-foot, six-and-a-half–knot steel boat Seahawk on the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. It was a 52-day trip—and a sensational misadventure. Nearly everything that could go wrong, did, including her arrest for illegally fishing in Canadian waters. Greenlaw chronicles it all—a busted engine, a malfunctioning ice machine, squirrelly technology—with an absorbing mix of nautical expertise and self-deprecation. After inspecting the Seahawk, Greenlaw calls it rough, but stable and capable. Then she writes, "Although I was referring to the boat, I couldn't help thinking the same could be said of her captain." From mishaps to fish tales, Greenlaw keeps her narrative suspenseful. Between bad luck and self-doubt, she moves from experience to wisdom, guiding both crew and readers on a voyage of self-affirmation.

Passages
On returning to the sea
The obvious risks inherent in commercial fishing--like those to life, limb, and livelihood--are concerns of mere mortals.  Real fishermen risk other things that are less easily explained.  In my present situation, the risks involved in returning to something I'd once felt so passionate about were many and not as tangible as fears for personal safety or pocketbook.  I risked falling out of love with fishing itself.  I'm good at catching fish.  Is this why I like to do it?  What if I were to suddenly realize that I did not enjoy the hunt?  What if I were absolutely turned off by blood and guts?  What if my heart didn't race with the tugging of a fish on the line?  And, God forbid, what if I'd lost the ability to catch fish?  My entire identity and self-definition were at stake.  Disillusionment, should it occur, would hit hard.  The half-full glass was not my style.  Perhaps the same scenario could be seen as enlightenment.  Either way I spun it, learning the truth was worth the risk, I concluded.

On making decisions
Maturity can't hold a candle to youthfulness.  Unless, I considered, it's a mental/emotional thing.  This endurance test would certainly go beyond physical.  Mentally I needed to be stronger and wiser.  Decisions were once based on gut reaction.  I'd often made the right decision for the wrong reason.  I'd done things purely from the strength of knowing that I could.  Now maybe I would be more thoughtful with the realization of the possibility that perhaps I could not.  I hoped that the past ten years had taught me something.  I must be smarter now than I was when I'd last captained a swordboat.  But what about quickness of mind?  Would I react to emergencies fast enough?  I had always prided myself on my mental reflexes in the face of danger or disaster.  I had always been confident beyond reason.  Maybe it was healthier to be wiser, more mature, and less confident.

On swordfish (vs. clams)
When I say "I love swordfish," I am not necessarily commenting on them as a meal, although I surely do enjoy them in that capacity.  Swordfish are the most interesting creatures!  They are fascinating and intriguing in their unique combination of fish and sword--like a unicorn, but real.  The facts and figures surrounding swordfish perhaps explain what makes them so worthy of my life-time pursuit of them.  The speed at which they travel, the distances they cover in their migration, and their strength all contribute to the quality most frequently attributed to them, elusiveness.  I can't imagine a life spent digging clams or trapping slime eels--they're just so...ordinary.  What's to know about a clam?  You traipse around the clam flats looking for holes in the surface of the mud.  One hole, one clam, as my Aunt Gracie used to say.  You see a hole, you dig, and you find a clam.  Big deal.  A clam does not possess the ability to dodge the digger.  Swordfish, in contrast, are mysterious and challenging and sexy.  You never hear stories about the giant clam that got away.  Clams have no personality.  You've seen one clam, you've seen them all.

On a relationship with fish
This game is a dance of sorts, or a collaboration.  We, the fish and I, both have our jobs to do.  Any given day it's a toss-up which of us is doing our job better.  Sometimes I feel like a gallant saltwater cowboy busting broncos.  Other times I just wait for my horse to be shot out from under me.  Damn fish.  I laughed to myself.  Our relationship is weirder than any I'd had with humans of the opposite sex.  And I'd had some weird ones.

On a sunrise
Darkness waded in cautiously and headed west.  Hesitating waist-deep, then plunging into the murky chill, the diving night splashed light onto the opposite horizon, which swam like spawning salmon up the riverlike sky.  The sun hatched as if it were a baby chick, pecking from within the shell until fully risen, yellow and warm, and as unsure as I was.  Quite a grand entrance....

Ahhh phrases

Ripe and one sliver shy of full, the cantaloupe moon shone a flashlight beam along our path as we steamed east through the Gulf of Maine. 

Far from worrying, I didn't have a care in the world as the Seahawk glided effortlessly along, bobbing slightly as if nodding her head or tapping a foot to some unheard music. 

My mood wasn't made any lighter by the bickering that rose from below.  The crew sounded like young brothers in the backseat on a long car ride. 

When he sang a ballad about the hardships of life at sea and harsh treatment by superiors, I felt as transparent as the gal in "Killing Me Softly."

I am a fan of Linda Greenlaw's writing and have attended three of her book readings/signings.  Each time as I sat in the audience, I marveled at the tenacity and strength of this seemingly slight woman standing in front of me.  She fishes, hauls lobster traps, cooks, manages crews of salty fisherman (some loyal and hardworking; others, not so).  And, she writes--from the most technical details on commercial fishing and seamanship, to the mysterious escapades of Jane Bunker, and finally to a turn of phrase about the moon or the ocean that causes you to stop reading and just be in the moment of that phrase.

Yes, if Linda Greenlaw writes it, I will read it.

Rating:  4/5 (Non-fiction Scale)

Dedication:  This book is dedicated to the hardworking men of the Seahawk:  Arthur Jost, Tim Palmer, Dave Hiltz, Mike Machado, and Nate Clark.

First line:  The cell door closed with the mechanical, steely sound of permanence.

Books by Linda Greenlaw
THE HUNGRY OCEAN: A Swordboat Captain's Journey
ALL FISHERMEN ARE LIARS: True Adventures at Sea
THE LOBSTER CHRONICLES: Life on a Very Small Island

Jane Bunker Mystery Series
SLIPKNOT
FISHERMAN'S BEND

Co-written with her mother, Martha Greenlaw
RECIPES FROM A VERY SMALL ISLAND

Making Toast by Roger Rosenblatt

There was a lot of pre-release buzz about Making Toast by Roger Rosenblatt.  I will readily admit, however, that this was a the-cover-got-me book (Still Life with Kettle, 1977, by Lennart Anderson).

From Publisher's Weekly
Family tragedy is healed by domestic routine in this quiet, tender memoir. When his daughter Amy died suddenly at the age of 38 from an asymptomatic heart condition, journalist and novelist Rosen-blatt (Lapham Rising) and his wife moved into her house to help her husband care for their three young children. Not much happens except for the mundane, crucial duties of child care: reading stories, helping with schoolwork, chasing after an indefatigable toddler who is “the busiest person I have ever known,” making toast to order for finicky kids. Building on the small events of everyday life, Rosenblatt draws sharply etched portraits of his grandchildren; his stoic, gentle son-in-law; his wife, who feels slightly guilty that she is living her daughter's life; and Amy emerges as a smart, prickly, selfless figure whose significance the author never registered until her death. Rosenblatt avoids the sentimentality that might have weighed down the story; he writes with humor and an engagement with life that makes the occasional flashes of grief all the more telling. The result is a beautiful account of human loss, measured by the steady effort to fill in the void.

Passages
On learning to speak (this theory fascintated me!)
Bubbies has been attending to his own education, proceeding from one word, to several, to two-word sentences, to three and more.  Some say that children learn to speak in order to tell the stories already in them.

On an IBM Selectric typewriter (I remember clearly the day in 1966 when the first IBM Selectrics were brought into Katharine Gibbs School in Boston to replace the Royal Standards)
Jessie wants to know how my IBM Selectric typewriter works.  It fascinates her to see me at it--one antique using another.

On reading
In a rare tranquil moment on a March afternoon, I sit on the green couch in the lower-level play area, rereading Anne Tyler's The Accidental Tourist.  It is around four-thirty, and the light has gone from the day.  Jessie comes downstairs and asks why I am so quiet.  "I'm reading," I tell her.  She takes one of her own books from the coffee table and sits beside me, extending her long legs over the front of the couch.  We sit in silence, reading, five feet from where Amy collapsed and died.  I look up from time to time, then return to my book.

On Yeats
She [Amy] had a gift for custom and ceremony--the qualities Yeats wished for in "A Prayer for My Daughter."

This narrative of the events following the sudden death of Ginny and Roger's daughter Amy is full of those peeking-through-windows moments for the reader.  There's the expected sad, grieving and empty moments; but there's also the sweet and healing* moments that let you know that this family will be ok.

Les at Lesley's Book Nook has written a very touching review of Making Toast which you can read here.

Rating:  3.5/5 (Non-Fiction Scale)

*5/7/10 Update:  If you read the comments for this post, you will see Nan's spot-on comment regarding "healing."  I've been thinking about what she wrote for several days now, and I think the more correct word I should have used would be "mending"--mending in the sense of an attempt to hold things together.  I'm still thinking about this; might have to return yet again with more thoughts on this. 

Dedication:  For Amy

Judi Dench: Scenes from My Life - John Miller, Editor

Judi Dench is one of my favorite actresses, especially in the PBS series As Time Goes By.  So when I saw this collection of photographs, Judi Dench:  Scenes from My Life, featured on the new non-fiction shelf at the library, I just had to bring it home and was very happy to spend several hours in the company of this wonderful woman.  Whether you know Dame Judi as M in the James Bond movies, Mrs. Brown, Elizabeth I in Shakespeare in Love or from her many stage roles, you will want to sit with this book for awhile.

Product Description (from amazon.com)
This marvelous collection of images, many of which are drawn from Judi Dench’s personal photo albums, offer the actress’s many fans a rare insight into her life. John Miller, her biographer, has augmented Judi Dench’s own photos with images depicting 50 years of distinguished work in film, theater, and television. From her childhood in York and her first work as an actress in her teens to recent informal shots backstage and private family photos, these images show Judi Dench as never seen before. Judi Dench is the foremost actress in contemporary British theater. She has also won acclaim for her films, with memorable performances in Shakespeare in Love, for which she received an Oscar, as well as Iris, Chocolat, Mrs. Brown, and Mrs. Henderson Presents, all of which garnered her Oscar nominations.

Passages
On selecting roles
All my life I have tried hard to avoid being typecast or pigeonholed, and whenever anyone says, "Oh, you shouldn't play that part," it only makes me much more determined to try.  ...other friends were nervous about my doing musicals, or against moving into television sitcoms.  At the same time, whenever I have had a particular success in one role, especially in films, I am immediately offered several more exactly like the last one.  After Mrs. Brown and Shakespeare in Love I turned down several other queens in rapid succession!

From the editor's Introduction
In Judi's own account of her life and career which follows, she characteristically makes light of her success, but it would be a great mistake to think that she is more concerned with the jokes than the quality of the work.  The one makes the other possible, and I know from watching her at work on-set and stage how essential it is to her that she can laugh in rehearsal.  It is that release of humour which enables her to give such searingly intense performances as Lady Macbeth, Queen Victoria or Iris Murdoch, to name but three.

The pictures she has chosen for this book capture her many moods, at home and work, and encapsulate what it is about her character that has gained her such a multitude of fans, of all ages and all walks of life, and now in so many countries of the world.

Scenes from My Life definitely falls into the coffee table book category, especially so because there is a definite feeling of having Dame Judi sitting beside you on the sofa exclaiming, "Oh, I remember when this picture was taken!"  I am eagerly looking forward to her autobiography, And Futhermore, which is scheduled to be released later this year.

Rating:  4/5 (Non-fiction scale)

Making the Rounds with Oscar by David Dosa, M.D.

Some time ago there was a human interest feature at the end of the nightly newscast which featured Oscar the cat.  Once I saw that Dr. Dosa was publishing a book, Making the Rounds with Oscar, I added it to my library reserve list and eagerly awaited its arrival.

From Publishers Weekly
Dosa, a geriatrician with a strong aversion to cats, tells the endearing story of Oscar the cat, the aloof resident at a nursing home who only spends time with people who are about to die. Despite hearing numerous stories about Oscar's uncanny ability to predict when a patient's time is nearing, Dosa, ever the scientist, remains skeptical. Slowly, he starts to concede that there may be something special about Oscar. Dosa starts to pay more attention to the cat's decidedly odd behavior, noticing that Oscar seeks out the dying, snuggles with the patient and family members until the patient passes; with others, he smells the patient's feet, sits outside a closed door until admitted, or refuses to leave a dying patient's bed. Dosa discovers how powerfully Oscar's mere presence reassures frightened or grieving family. Ultimately, the good doctor realizes that it doesn't matter where Oscar's gift comes from; it's the comfort he brings that's important. This touching and engaging book is a must-read for more than just cat lovers; anyone who enjoys a well-written and compelling story will find much to admire in its unlikely hero.

Passages
On coping
Watching a loved one's health fail is hard.  Most families eventually find a way to accept it and move on.  Some can even do it with grace and dignity.  Mary always spoke of one son who was ceaselessly cheerful in the fact of his mother's dementia.  "How do you do it?" she asked him one day.  "Oh, I said good-bye to my mother a long time ago," he told her.  "Now I've just fallen in love with this little lady!"

On dog person vs. cat person
Ida looked up at me with a knowing smile.  "You're not much of a cat person, are you?"  "I can't say that I am, but I'm trying to be."  Then Ida openly laughed.  "I knew it!  I could tell you were more of a dog person.  You're too damn nice."

On Oscar's demeanor
He generally kept a safe distance and left my mother alone, but when he'd wander by and she would stop to talk to him, well, he stopped too.  He never stayed long and he never cuddled up to her--Oscar was more like a visiting dignitary than a house cat--but he always stopped as if to hear her out.  Visiting dignitary indeed.

On coping...again
"Because you want them back in the worst possible way...you just want your parent back, the one who signed the report cards, the one who made the Thanksgiving dinner.  But you can't."  Knowing that, and coming to terms with that knowledge, is really the most difficult part.  A relationship between two people is made up, for the most part, of invisible things:  memories, shared experiences, hopes, and fears.  When one person disappears, the other is left alone, as if holding a string with no kite.  Memories can do a lot to sustain you, but the invisible stuff of the relationship is lost, even as unresolved issues remain:  arguments never settled, kind words never uttered, things left unsaid.  They become like a splinter beneath the skin--unseen, but painful nevertheless.  Until they're exposed, coping with the loss is impossible.

On the reason for cats
I think it's one of the reasons we've kept cats at Steere House all these years.  The patients like them, for the most part, either because they hark back to some forgotten relationship they may have had with a pet, or maybe because they are non-judgmental.  A cat doesn't care what you do for a living or whether you're rich or poor.  A cat doesn't care if you're able to remember its name or if you're up to date with the latest news.  But we were beginning to realize that cats mean something to the families, too, long before Oscar started his vigils.  They seem to help reassure family members who enter into the nursing home with some trepidation.  For a lot of visitors, the reality of nursing home existence can be a rather harsh wake-up call.  All the more reason to take comfort in something familiar.  Even if it is a cat.

On how Oscar does it
"I feel like the more I learn, the less I know.  I mean, why does he do it?" asked Dr. Dosa.  "Who knows, Dr. Dosa?  There's probably some scientific explanation but in the end, does it really matter?  He's there when it counts."

On Oscar
Is it outlandish to suggest that Oscar, a cat residing on a floor where patients with end-stage dementia routinely die, has merely learned how to pick up on a specific smell emitted in the final hours of a patient's lifespan?  Perhaps, but I like to think of Oscar as more than a ketone early-earning system.  Ever since I was a child, listening intently as my grandfather read bedtime stories from Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories, I have imbued animals with human characteristics and frailties.  It could simply be that we see ourselves in them--the best of ourselves, sometimes.  On a floor where the staff has gone to great lengths to make the dying experience tolerable for the residents and their families, I'd like to think Oscar embodies empathy and companionship.  ...I don't really pretend to know the nature of Oscar's special gift--I am not an animal behaviorist nor have I rigorously studied the why and how of his behavior.  Whether he is motivated by a refined sense of smell, a special empathy, or somethine entirely different--your guess is a good as mine.  But I believe we can all learn from his example.

If you read this book, I am sure the stories of the Steere House residents and their families will stay with you for quite some time as will the mystery of how Oscar does what he does.  The news stories about Oscar made him into a bit of a Grim Reaper character; in reality, he is a welcomed comforter and companion.  The subtitle of the book, The Extraordinary Gift of an Ordinary Cat, sums up what you need to know about Oscar who reminds us all to be present and to live in the moment every day.

I particularly liked the chapter pages with the paw prints:

Here's a glimpse of Oscar:

Rating:  4/5 (Non-fiction Scale)

Cherries in Winter by Suzan Colon

The cover was what first attracted me to Cherries in Winter by Suzan Colon.  For some reason, I immediately thought of my mother and her signature lipstick, Cherries in the Snow.  Turns out, the author's grandmother and my mother (who were of an age) had something in common as they both advised, "Never go without lipstick; it only makes you look washed out."

From Cover Flap
When Suzan Colon was laid off from her dream job at a magazine during the economic downturn of 2008, she needed to cut her budget way, way back--and that meant home cooking.  Her mother suggested, "Why don't you look in Nana's recipe folder?"  In the basement, Suzan found the tattered treasure, full of handwritten and meticulously typed recipes, peppered with her grandmother Matilda's commentary in the margins.  Reading it, Suzan realized she had found something more than a collection of recipes--she had found the key to her family's survival through hard times.

Notes and Quotes
First reactions:
Put up soup; that's what my family says when times get tough. Some people batten down the hatches, others go to the mattresses--whatever your family's code phrase is, it means bracing yourself and doing whatever will sustain you through rough going until things get better. In my family, we put up soup.

When your known world is shaken:
Being in this recession feels like watching a nature film about the disintegration of a major polar ice shelf:  Huge chunks of everything we thought was solid keep breaking apart and disappearing into an abyss, the depth of which no one knows.  Fear is palpable, and worry about how much worse it's going to get is the main topic of conversation.

On Nana's love of words and writing:
Nana was in love with words.  In school she read the dictionary, a page a day, and she bought new, updated dictionaries the way some people buy novels.  In the box with the recipe file I find envelopes and folders full of papers--some related to her work as a secretary for the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority and the Coliseum, a convention center in New York.  But most of it is her personal writing.  She didn't keep a diary but wrote about her life in a series of essays and articles she hoped to send to magazines, and her Everywoman subject matter was ahead of its time.

The cherries:
One night in the middle of December, the fruit vendor had the winter cherries.  They were pricey all right, but Matilda didn't hesitate.  It wasn't that cold out, so mother and daughter walked to the park and sat on a bench to enjoy their extravagance.  "Is there anything better in the world," Matilda said, "than being in Manhattan in Central Park and eating cherries in winter?"

The rationalization for the cherries:
The women in my family have certain traits:  height, prominent noses, and the ability to rationalize spending extra, just once in a while, when there is no extra to be spent.  Because.  I got some of their height and all of the nose, but I thought that last characteristic was missing in me.  It wasn't; I just didn't realize that it only wakes up when we begin to measure ourselves by money, or the lack of it.  It's not a reflexive kick of denial about having less.  It's a deep breath reminding us not to become miserly in spirit.  We may be broke, but we're not poor.

You're unemployed, you need a trip to the hairdresser (you no longer go to a "hair stylist"), you need to make decisions:
Of course, there's no decision to be made.  I'd give up my hair appointments forever and become the Wild Woman of Borneo before I'd let my cat be in pain or even have to forgo the cruncy kibble she likes so much.  Nor will I repurpose my monthly donations to the ASPCA and the local food bank for this expense.  I've have to cut down on the amount I give, but I refuse to cut charitable donations out completely.  There have been too many stories of pets left behid in abandoned homes and last year's food bank donors becoming this year's recipients.  Not giving while I still have something to give, no matter how little, is an inner beauty routine I won't do without.

I've never in my life had a $300 hair cut or shopped in stores as exclusive as those Ms. Colon frequented, so my adjustment to unemployment has been on a lesser scale.  However, the reality of unemployment is a blow to ego and psyche; and the adjustment, whether large- or small-scale, is daunting and a bit scary.  Many of the thoughts and fears expressed by Ms. Colon rang true.  I didn't put up soup, but there was a pot of beef stew to lend comfort on that first day of imposed leisure.

And--as my daughter reminded me--when you're feeling bad, there isn't a better picker-upper than a new tube of lipstick.  Do you think Revlon still sells Cherries in the Snow?

Rating:  3.5/5 (Non-fiction scale)

Dedication:  For Mom, Dad, and Nathan

Forward from Here

Reeve Lindbergh, daughter of Charles and Anne Morrow Lindbergh, used the occasion of her sixtieth birthday to publish a new collection of essays entitled, Forward from Here: Leaving Middle Age—and Other Unexpected Adventures. (I often wonder at the necessity of the “coloned” book title. Would we not understand the title without this seemingly parenthetic explanation?) The Hippie lifestyle in Vermont as described in the first essay, "Hippies in the Hot Tub," didn’t exactly mirror my 1970s experiences; however, Lindbergh’s thoughtful passages regarding the who’s and the what’s of passing life experiences grabbed me and didn’t let go until the last page.


From Publishers Weekly
In this collection of poignant essays, Lindbergh struggles to extract meaning, and even solace, from an imperfect everyday reality. Heading her list of concerns is her looming 60th birthday and the change and decline that it symbolizes-the departure from home of her children, a benign brain tumor, the therapeutic drug culture that is the hallmark of old age in America. Despite her anxieties and losses, she manages to find in fragile, flawed things-a broken sea shell, a heron that's lost a leg-a kind of beauty. Lindbergh also explores her fraught relationship with her father, the aviator Charles Lindbergh, "an angry, restless, opinionated perfectionist" whose "very presence alternately crowded and startled everyone," and grapples with the discovery that he had secretly fathered seven children-her half siblings-in Europe. Set mostly amid the tranquil surroundings of her Vermont farmstead, Reeve's essays are suffused with a sly, gentle humor that supports her quiet resolve to carry on.

Passages
On relationships:
There is something wonderful about unexpected affection, whether it develops between an octogenarian and an eight-year-old, a staunch conservative Republican and a progressive liberal Democrat, or a Yankee farmer and a hippie homesteader. It delights me that every so often the good feeling that two people have for each other is too strong for their biases and their upbringing, and defeats both in a flood of fellow feeling neither can explain.

On aging:
Fortunately, fears fed by the imagination tend to lose energy and diminish over time. Now I’m close to sixty, and though I don’t always recognize the face I see in the mirror, something has changed in the way I think about aging and dying. I have an increased awareness of my own aging. The process increasingly interests and amazes me, annoys and irritates me, and sometimes it still frightens me, too, but much, much less than it used to. I find that along with the annoyance and irritation there is amusement—how often and in how many places can I lose my glasses in a day?—and that in the place of the old fear for my own physical survival there is an ongoing very real sadness at the absence of the friends and family members who have died before me.

On love and loss:
As I journey on, I carry my lost loved ones with me: my sister, my mother, and all the others. I have learned over the years that I can do this, that love continues beyond loss. It continues not abstractly but intimately, and it continues forever. My experience has also made me understand that loss is inevitable, and that loss, too, continues forever, right along with love.

On “ongoingness”:
There have been one or two horrible times in my life, as there are in too many lives, when the “ongoingness” my mother taught me to value was interrupted in a radical way and neither daily rhythms nor the discipline of writing could restore my balance. An event can be so cataclysmic that it pulls its surviving victims right out of life to plummet into a deep and terrible darkness where there is no solid ground and where day-to-day comforts are meaningless. I have learned by living through a few such times, however, that daily life has a strength and a staying power even more persistent than the terrible downward forces of catastrophe. Dailiness outlasts despair. For a while the rhythms of daily life may seem to be submerged, even drowned in disaster, but that is never true. Sooner or later, after mornings and evenings and mornings and evenings and mornings and evenings again, however many of them it takes, and never by dishonoring reality or by displacing grief, never by rushing the inevitability of feeling, meaning always returns.

On sustenance as we age:
I’m convinced that what we really need most to sustain us as we grow older, more than any drug on the market, is this kind of appreciative awareness, along with compassion, a sense of humor, and simple common sense. Side effects will include a certain amount of pain, a fair share of sorrow, recurring doses of discomfort great and small, and an immeasurable, priceless quantity of peace of mind.

There are many more passages that I have marked, but I will leave it to your reading of Forward from Here to find the words that sing out to you.

~*~
After hearing Ms. Lindbergh speak at Porter Square Books on May 7, I am looking forward to reading Under a Wing and No More Words. And I am eagerly hunting down her children’s books written in rhyme!

Forward from Here would be a thoughtful reading for everyone, not just those of us approaching or in our 60s. Any reader could find direction in learning to embrace the everyday, to appreciate the details of life from the hissing of a teakettle to the crunch of stone underfoot on a daily walk, or to make friends with that most important person in life--yourself.

5/5 (Non-fiction scale)
Simon & Schuster (2008)
Hardcover
220 pages
Finished: May 2008

Dedication: To Nat